I think it’s right around the time that I started writing professionally that I stopped writing personally. And as I stand and look at the bleak landscape of what is the copywriting critiques of some other company’s blog and therefore, their words, I remember why I miss it.

There’s something so invigorating about writing something that no one can touch. These are my words. These are my thoughts. These are my opinions. And yes, that’s three sentences in a row that I started with the word ‘these’ and there’s nothing that your edit-crazy, get in line pen can do about it.

I feel so free! For years (has it been years?) I’ve been stuck in a content cycle that never ends. 140 characters of abide by my rules, trim this, cut that and finally, finally I’m opening a blank word document and writing an essay for myself.

Why aren’t you writing, Meg? Their words like echoes on a procrastination loop in my brain. I am writing, I insist! I am writing.

But not for me.

Over three years ago, I wrote my last blog. I need to live, I thought. I need to live and the words will come. But I’ve lived and I came so close to writing again- each time like standing next to a treadmill that was running beside me but never getting on. Each time thinking ok, I’m going to just jump on and go and seizing up in preparation and then realizing my shoe wasn’t tight enough to go through with it.

Each of those boxes are labeled in sharpie. One for every year 8th grade through college, one for Kansas City and one for Los Angeles.

In each of these boxes are miscellaneous ribbons, diaries, pictures, birthday cards. Things I should have thrown away but I kept and now I have no idea where they are from or what they mean.

On occasion, I open them up and remember myself from that particular year of my life. Who that girl was, what she wanted, what she didn’t get and what she did. Spoiler alert: it involves a lot of boys and school dances.

I’m not a particularly sentimental person. I have my moments just like everyone else but generally speaking, I reside in the present.

Tonight I was going through my Los Angeles box and found an unopened card addressed to Mr. Ted Miller. It’s my handwriting. It’s my card. I can’t remember what Mr. Miller looked like or what day of the week it was when I met him, and I can tell you I meant to send it. I really did. But I never went through with it.

And now I’m going to tell you why.

I’ve been in the impressive and sprawling lobby of Creative Artist Agency exactly three times. And as long as they haven’t done in recent remodeling, I can tell you to the last detail what it looks like.

There’s a cluster of leather chairs in the middle of the room. To the far end is this red and yellow glass looking mural sculpture that travels floor to ceiling. Everything else is white. Marble maybe.

Creative Artists Agency, or CAA, is probably the single most powerful organization in Hollywood. Their agents represent some of the best and brightest stars in the business. Never heard of them? Good. They want it that way.

And did I want to be an agent? Not really. Did I want to represent some hot shot Hollywood starlet? Negative. I just wanted to write for TV, man. And this is how I was told you do it.

You get a job here Meg, you could make it anywhere. This on your resume, this will get you noticed. This will change your life.

They lovingly refer to CAA’s building as “The Death Star”, mostly because it looks like “The Death Star” and also because when you go inside you lose your soul. Just kidding. Kind of.

Naturally, on my trip down to the parking garage I played The Imperial March (Darth Vader’s Theme Song for reference) and I also wondered if I was the first to do this.

I sat across from Mr. Miller, finally being interviewed by “The Man Who Could Change My Whole Life”. The man who represented THE BEST of TV from Matthew Weiner (Creator of Mad Men) to Zach Braff (One of the greatest humans to ever walk the planet IMO). Floor to ceiling windows looking out into a sea of platinum. Century City. OZ.

I knew it was gametime. I knew if ever there was a time to be charming, intelligent, unique, quick-witted, ambitious… now was that time. This ain’t no HR screening. This is front and center, you better not have spinach in your teeth playa because THIS INTERVIEW IS ALL IN YOUR GRILL.

But I knew staring over Mr. Miller’s shoulders at the pouring rain (really though, how ominous of you, LA) and his little patch of corner office success in a sea of powerful black suits, I just couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t be this man’s assistant. I don’t want to answer his phones, and get his dry cleaning and schedule his meetings, and stay until midnight and make shit money and just hack the lifestyle that I knew joining the elite hunger games arena of CAA would require.

And so I walked out of his office, and down the CAA elevator one last time. Like any good agency interviewee knows, I went to the bathroom and wrote a hand-written note thanking him for his time. But instead of handing it to the front desk to deliver to him, I put it in my purse and left.

And there it sat. I never mailed it.

I highly doubt never sending a thank you note is the sole reason I didn’t get this job. I think someone as powerful as Ted Miller has to rise with a level of intuition. And something about me had flight risk written all over it. Or maybe he just didn’t like me. There are a million reasons to not get a job.

But life is funny right? Like how I waited almost an entire calendar year for this one opportunity, for this job of a lifetime. For the one interview that was going to change everything. Put me on the map. Get me noticed. And sitting there, I knew I didn’t want it anymore.

And there’s a certain power in taking back your choices, you know? In changing your mind. We’re so stuck in an endless rotation of achieving our goals, we forget why were going after them in the first place. Me? I wanted to write. Not be at the agency zoo looking at writers.

And from time to time, I like the reminder. So I take out this unopened card and remember what it was like to walk away from such an opportunity. Then I put it back in my LA shoebox, next to the nine other shoeboxes of who I used to be and I close my closet and I smile and think about everything that has happened since.

Ok, not really. But sort of? Allow me to explain. It all started with this question:

Would you rather have a child that is resiliently kind but incorrigibly slow? Or a child who’s deeply intelligent but incorrigibly cruel?

The intelligent child will most likely excel academically where other children struggle. They might be clever and quick-witted which will lead them down a bright path of monetary wealth and career-related success and who doesn’t want that for their future children? However, a lack of compassion as well as a shrewd and cold personality might also result in a series of shallow and meaningless relationships throughout their lives. They may never know true love because they don’t truly know how to love, themselves.

On the other hand, the “slow” child may live a considerably more difficult life. They will be fooled, manipulated, bullied and belittled. By societal standards, they may only ever merely get by. Existing only in the average, an anonymous water boy in a sea of valedictorians. But this child is also born with something you can’t possibly learn in a book. They go into the world never hardened by all of life’s disappointments. They continue to laugh and smile and share true joy with those around them. To the naked judgmental eye, they may never go anywhere in this life, but yet, you feel their goodness inside of you regardless of where you are. And don’t we all want our children to be so joyful?

I struggled not because I am honestly considering my future hypothetical children (can’t put enough LOLs here) but because when I flip the mirror back on myself, who would I personally rather be? And if I had to choose, in the broad spectrum of each individual trait, what’s of greater use in this world to the next generation? What’s more important to living well?

I guess it comes down to your definition of what living well entails.

It’s been said, if you’re the smartest person in the room, you’re in the wrong room. I personally think the same can be applied to kindness. What good is surrounding yourself with brilliant people if they don’t portray an ounce of moral clarity? And what does that say about yourself?

I love a stimulating intellectual conversation with a total stranger. It’s interesting to me to hear how others think. From where their opinions stem. How it can mold and enhance my own thoughts and ideas on the world. But even more than that, I love seeing selflessness from someone I don’t know. I’d rather see more simple random acts of kindness in this world than people talking intelligent theoretical philosophical smack at each other about why their opinions are correct.

I saw this documentary about series of individuals in one neighborhood in Houston, Texas. One particular segment was about a mother and her son, a disabled grown man. Despite the majority of the story line suggesting that this man’s life was generally filled with a simple happiness most of us will never know, there was one scene that really stuck with me. His mom was telling the camera that he’s aware that he doesn’t mentally move as fast as others. She spoke of a time in his frustration, where he balled up his fists and squinted his eyes and started to belly cry. “My life hard,” he sobbed.

I consider myself an intelligent person. I also think there is an infinite amount of education in the world for me to continue to learn for the rest of my life. But I believe kindness is something you can choose regardless of intellectual capacity. It doesn’t make one naive or idiotic or simple or stupid, to be kind. It doesn’t make me inexperienced and uneducated, if I choose to be good. My kindness is a conscious choice not a naive uneducated delusion.

I wanted to go find this man and tell him that. I wanted to tell him it is more important to have an altruistic heart, than a brilliant mind. That no amount of reading about love can make you feel it for yourself. What good is intelligence if you don’t have the compassion to guideit?

In 2016, I’d like to be a better version of myself. Wouldn’t we all in some capacity? Richer. Smarter. Skinnier. Stronger. I’d be lying if I said I don’t wish for a little of all of that as well. Life would be a little easier if we were all a little better. Life is hard because we aren’t. Or at least that’s what we tell ourselves.

But happiness and kindness isn’t something you have to build up to attain. It’s a choice. Something you can do immediately. Someone you can be immediately. You can be a better person right now. A kinder person. A happier person. A person who chooses joy even if all the intelligent experience tells you to harden up and barrel on.

If I had to choose between being the kindest or the smartest person in the room, I want to be the kindest.

Recently, through a series of reflective (literally, cause mirror) hair straightening sessions I’ve been giving ample thought to the following questions, “Dearest Meg, what do you like to do outside the realm of spending money on pretty things and eating delicious food?” and (said in song) “When will my reflection show who I am inside?” (Namely, Blake Lively. When will I look like Blake Lively.)

But back to the first question, as it’s actually a question and not merely a desperate never-ending Christmas wish.

I’ve been feeling recently that everything I love to do (ie: my passions, hobbies, interests etc.) involve some sort purchasing a good or service and/or consuming decadent cuisine. “When did these become my only pastimes?” I ponder as I absent-mindedly leave my straightener in a particular portion of my hair until smoke pours off. I am not this dense! I have substance! I am goal-oriented and curious about the world around me so how is it possible that because I can’t go shopping or go out to eat all of a sudden, I’m bored?

And with this one Cher Horowitz inspired external monologue, I suddenly lose my clueless disposition and realize what’s been missing from my life.

I miss writing with no purpose whatsoever. At some point, I’ve gotten so wrapped up in a laundry list of work writing tasks and accomplishments, I stopped creating just to create. Sure, I post my silly instagram captions and an occasional witty status update. But it’s just not enough. I miss writing long-winded dialogues about whatever I freaking want.

I want to write restaurant reviews for the every day eater, and in-depth analyses about why I think Taylor Swift is one of the most brilliant business women of our time and short auto-biographical stories about how I attempted to make a casserole tonight that I plan on eating for the next 5 days and how it sadly tastes exactly like parsley and poverty.

Mostly, I think I need to redefine what Leftovers From Friday stands for and accept the fact that much like the concept of leftovers themselves, I don’t have to abide by a set standard of what I’ve always written. Leftovers are the remains of what used to be. So you get what you get, and you either eat it or you don’t. Today it’s this. Tomorrow it’s that. I’m not a fashion blogger, or a nutritional expert, or posting emo photos of that one time at band camp, but not writing with a particular purpose… is kind of what I do best.

This part of my life is entitled ‘7 Minutes in Heaven’ when it comes to giant tubs of hummus and ‘Never Have I Ever’ when to comes to sex and also, truth I might have dared to dance around in my underwear to a Backstreet Boys medley for an hour last night. it is also entitled ‘Two Truths and a Lie’ because everything I say, do, and write can and will eventually be used for awkward company ice-breaker activities and/or high school coming-of-age drinking games.

My editor that I don’t yet have will tell me this is entirely too long of a book title because I’m not Fiona Apple and I’m definitely never going to sell one copy of any publication if I can’t at least tweet the name of it in less than 140 characters.
And alas, my fake, imaginary editor has a point. I would have killed it during Shakespearean times. Lengthy, floral writing FTW. Less thus and thous. Same general metaphorical concept. Thine word game is divine ninja-level. Nay, I digress.

I have officially lived by myself for four weeks and three days. And it has been nothing but instance after instance of pure unadulterated ecstasy. Because as it turns out, I am absolutely spectacular at living by myself. There is a simple kind of joy that comes with turning the key to a place that is all yours full of material possessions that are also all yours. Even the air in the place is mine. My plans are mine, my food is mine, the day is mine and I’m just seizing it into submission.

It is delight.

There are struggles. As with any change. For instance, wearing dresses that zip up the back and spending nearly ten minutes of interpretative zipper-related gymnastics with the simple goal of freeing myself from the garment I personally imprisoned myself in.

Some nights, I get a little scared. Irrational fears beyond burglars and homeless transients staring at me as I sleep but rather more along the lines of the grudge girl slowly but surely taking up real estate in my furnace room and plotting her attack on my brain. Also, zombies. Always zombies.

No one wakes me up when I’m late and no one can help me make a game time fashion decision. Luckily, I rarely sleep in and my fashion sense is impeccable, so neither is a huge concern.

The concept of being alone is both an illusion and a reality. In reality, I live by myself. I am alone. I am one person living in one place. I make meals for one. I watch solo television. I dance and I sing and I laugh all by myself.

Society’s perception of being alone will tell you this makes me damaged. I am the scene in The Holiday where Kate Winslet’s character starts weeping (because British people do not cry, they weep) into her stove and starts intensely inhaling carbon monoxide briefly intent on ending her solo misery with suicide. I am Bridget Jones frumpy diary. I am Liz Lemon’s Chinese leftovers. I am Elle Woods post-break up, Mia Thermopolis pre-makeover, Julia Stiles before Heath Ledger, and the entire Never Been Kissed plot before what’s his name finally makes out with Drew Barrymore finally ridding her of that horrible nickname- Josie Grossie.

Society’s perception of being alone will also tell you this makes me empowered. I am the scene in Charlie’s Angels when Cameron Diaz dances in her superhero underwear because she freaking can! I am Juno MacGuff’s hamburger phone. I am Erin Brockovich’s leopard print bra. I am Carrie Bradshaw post-breakup, Hermione Granger pre-makeover, Veronica after JD, and the final dance scene in The First Wives Club.

Because the truth is, we believe what we want to believe and we see what we want to see and my truth is different than yours but absolutely correct and yet somehow your truth is much truer than mine but all of it is true because we decide it to be.

I can be both needy and powerful because it’s all about how I see myself. And how you see me. And how I choose to let how you see me, make me see myself.

If that made no sense- which it probably didn’t- allow me to explain.

You meet this guy. This girl. This person. Whatever. You really like them. No, I mean you REALLY like them. You think about them in a way that your brain just does that thing in Mario cart where you just drift into a median and keep crushing (get it) your little heart cart against the idea of this person which is really just a wall but all you see is windows and star power.

And you’re texting them trying to be relaxin maxin chillin all cool but really you’re internally freaking out because omg, Mario cart is jumping off every race track into the great abyss of love. And you’re all do they like me? Why aren’t they texting me back? Why didn’t she call me? What does his text mean? Screenshot. Snapchat. Long drunk conversation with stranger who doesn’t give two shits. Compulsively checking iPhone in a similar fashion to the day your online shopping order will arrive. Where the hell are my shoes?

And meanwhile, this other person you so desperately want to play with is off pretending to be Zelda or something like not even on the same gaming platform because they are pursuing someone playing monopoly who is pursing someone who doesn’t like games at all but just prefers to drink beer.

And you’re over here analyzing everything and thinking, alright, alright, alright-I think they like me! When in reality, you’re dazed and confused and they don’t at all and they never will but you can’t see that truth until you finally cross that heart racetrack finish line and hang up your delusional joy sticks and finally turn off the game you’ve been playing and look a different truth, in the face.

Because perception- much like cheese on macaroni and sweatpants on couches- means everything. And perception, much like the size of your…truck and Tinder personal messages- means nothing.

I like living by myself. But I don’t consider myself alone. You might never want to live by yourself because then you’d have to see yourself differently. That’s the truth for you. You choose to believe it. Just like you choose to believe someone cares about you or someone doesn’t care about you or that you aren’t alone because you have a roommate or that you are alone because you don’t.

This part of your life is entitled, I see things the way I want to, until one day I don’t. That’s called experience. That’s called change. That’s called adaption and maturity. That’s called reality. That’s called perception. But above all, that’s called life.

And on that note, this part of my life is called, I’m happy. And despite other’s perspectives on my reality, at least for today- that is nothing but the simple truth.

I’m about to say something that a lot of girls might say out loud over a couple of drinks in a superficial conversation with a convenient stranger.

They probably wouldn’t write it down though.

I’m not a lot of girls.

I don’t dream about marriage. I don’t want children. I see both as a lifelong commitment that limits me to a location and a life that maybe someday I won’t want anymore.

I know that is selfish and subject to change. But I’m allowed both. I’m single and 25. And I’ve never been more confident of those words.

I too have seen people getting engaged everyday. I’m pretty unaffected. I killed a houseplant two weeks ago and every morning I wake up and think about my next move in life. The kind of solidity that these kind of relationships require at this point in my life does not speak to me in the slightest.

I like how independent I am. I like how passionate I can be. I like that when something pisses me off or excites me or just makes me react– I know I have the eloquentness to put my feelings and thoughts into words that I’m not afraid to say out loud or worry (at least too often) that I’ve said too much. In fact, I rarely leave things unsaid. I say what’s on my mind. I write those same letters you never sent, but instead? I sent them.

I like being a mental gypsy. I like having a restless mind. I like being that Elton John song from the Lion King. And most of all, I actually really like being alone. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to wake up next to something other than my body pillow sometimes. That doesn’t mean I don’t get lonely. What it does mean is that the foundation of marriage and relationships- from an outside perspective at least- for being apparently rooted in the idea of two people who love and respect each other and want the other to succeed, feels a lot of the time, incredibly flimsy and superficial.

Explain this to me: You spend your entire life screwing up. You spend too much money. Pick the wrong friends. Choose the wrong job. Move to the wrong state and generally, just migrate from one mistake to the next. There’s nothing wrong with this. The best part of messing up is learning from your mistakes and not doing them again. Doing it better next time. Respect for the perspective you gain. Sometimes, it’s even fun. It’s called LIFE, my friends and anyone who’s said they never made a mistake, you can leave this blog party. Exit to the left. (to the left, to the left)

But yet, when it comes to marriage, this one decision that states very literally, “’till death do us part,” (how’s that for the ultimate YO, DON’T FUCK UP BRO) people seem to all of a sudden have this ABSOLUTE certainty that this person is the other half of your soul, your perfect mate. There is NO WAY I messed this up. I got this particular decision absolutely correct despite an entire lifetime of mistakes leading up to it.

And hey, some people do. My parents for instance. They’ve been married over 25 years now and I live with them so I feel like I can say first hand, it’s not glamorous or anything, but it’s working.

So these aren’t comments from a broken, bitter home. I just come from the school of thought that my parents aren’t the norm, they’re the exception.

Every place I’ve lived has changed me. Has shaped me. From high school, to college, to everywhere between there and now. I want different things than I used to. I don’t know where I’ll be or what I’ll want 5 years from now. I kind of like that uncertainty. The rush that comes with not knowing. The knowledge that the Meg of 20 will be exponentially different from the Meg of 30. In the best possible way.

I’m also not worried about “meeting someone.” I certainly admire particular relationships in my life. People who didn’t meet on a “normal” timeline. People who are a team as much as a couple. Who talk and then actually listen. Who work hard for everything they have. Who celebrate each other’s victories, and mourn each others defeats. Who stick it out when it’s hard. Who mess up, but come back swinging humility and forgiveness. No relationship is perfect. But there are those that are built to last. That are founded in trust, and respect and honesty. The way I imagine all relationships really should be.

And I want that. Who doesn’t? We’re all just bumping into each other between our 9-5 commutes and alcoholic binges hoping to feel something, anything. And when you do? When you feel something that strong and that intense and that absurd and that crazy and that wonderful– screw it, maybe I’d get hitched too.

But if you see marriage as a checklist item that you need to X out before you’ve really lived, well I personally think you’re missing the point. If you’re out at a bar this Saturday thinking well maybe this weekend will be the one where I meet someone, I think you’re delusional. And if you’re sitting here wondering when you’re going to meet that person who’s finally going to complete you– well, best of luck my friend.

I know people in unhappy relationships. Who hide their misery in the smoke and mirrors of plastic pink happiness hearts and painted silicon smiles. I know people who are unhappily single. Who are waiting at a street corner for an unmarked bus just around the corner. That is always just around the corner.

Me? I’m just cruising to my favorite song on an empty street in the middle of nowhere. I’ve got enough baggage to get me to my next location and I glance into my rearview every once in a while to see where I’ve been. The road has potholes but I can change my own tires and if I see a hot stranger in the distant future asking for a ride, maybe I’ll stop. But I probably won’t. I’m happily traveling solo as I observe others spinning infidelity and miscommunication donuts in passing parking lots.

I turn up the volume, flip my shades and keep driving. I don’t know where I’m going just yet but like the leather seat under my sweet single ass, I’m just here to enjoy the ride.